


Absence makes the heart grow fonder (distance makes it hurt)

by dishonestdreams



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 03:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18730765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dishonestdreams/pseuds/dishonestdreams
Summary: Brendon didn't think they'd come...





	Absence makes the heart grow fonder (distance makes it hurt)

**Author's Note:**

> Another old ficlet that I found in my 'what the hell is actually in my wip folder' exploration. This one was saved as 'fix the panic boys because their broken relationship makes me sad fuck my life'. Just saying, guys, none of my fic is ever about fucking _fixing_ people *eyeroll*
> 
> Inspired by the pictures of Brendon from his stint in _Kinky Boots_ and the rumour I heard that he'd invited his former bandmates to the show...

“Oh,” Brendon says, a barely there wisp of sound that swells up to fill his whole chest, until it feels like he can’t draw another breath. He reaches out blindly, looking for something, _anything_ , to ground himself and his hand brushes against the velvet-rough back of the dressing room chair. He curls his fingers over it, tight enough to feel the ache in his joints where they’re pressed into the hard back. “Oh.”

Spencer looks tired; there are shadows under his eyes that are different to the ones Brendon remembers from years ( _toomanynotenough_ ) of touring and there’s a drag to his smile, almost as though his mouth is too exhausted to draw up into the right shape. He leans against the door frame, neither in the room nor out of it, and nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says, and then his gaze drops. “Nice boots.”

“You’re here,” Brendon says, and he can hear it; hope, and hurt, and delight, and admonishment all vying for place in those few syllables. He can hear it because he can feel it, and fuck, this is not what he needs five minutes before call. “Why are you here?”

Spencer frowns, a flicker of confusion and…something else that Brendon hates that he can’t identify in his eyes as he looks back up. “You sent…” he trails off uncertainly, and then shakes his head, “I can go?”

“No!” The word rings out like a shot, with Brendon’s permission and explosively loud in the hush of Brendon’s dressing room. Spencer starts, his eyes wide. “No,” Brendon says again, at a slightly more normal volume, “I just. I didn’t think.” He stops because, really, where the fuck is he supposed to take that sentence. _I didn’t think you’d come. I didn’t think you wanted to. I didn’t think you cared anymore_. What an excellent way to make himself sound like a needy, melodramatic idiot. Okay, so it might be little bit true, but that doesn’t mean he needs to say it out loud.

Spencer quirks an eyebrow, “Do you ever?” he asks, and it’s so _familiar_ that it makes Brendon’s heart hurt, except that it’s not, because there’s just a second of hesitation, just a shade of that uncertainty, like Spencer’s not sure he’s _allowed_ anymore and that makes Brendon’s entire _chest_ hurt.

Spencer will _always_ be allowed. 

He’s quiet for too long and Spencer shifts in the doorway, his shoulders dropping a little. “Well, it’s good,” he says, quietly, “To see you anyway. I’ll just…”. He waves his hand behind him in what Brendon supposes is meant to indicate the front of house. He turns away, his back half to Brendon, and something in Brendon just snaps.

He can’t let Spencer just walk away like this. He _can’t_.

He’s flying across the room before he’s even consciously given himself permission to move and he collides with Spencer with perhaps more force that he meant to, his arms wrapping awkwardly round Spencer’s middle, with Spencer’s arm trapped between them. It’s clumsy and graceless, more than a little uncomfortable, but Spencer’s _there_ ; the same line of solid warmth against Brendon’s front, the same spicy scent from the deodorant he’s been using since they were kids, and it settles something deep in Brendon’s belly that he hadn’t even know was fractious until right this second. He buries his face against the side of Spencer’s neck, Spencer’s skin warm and a little clammy against his nose and just inhales deeply.

“Missed you,” he mutters and he feels more than hears Spencer’s slow exhale, before Spencer’s free hand comes up to pat clumsily at his head.

“Yeah,” Spencer says, thickly, against his hair, “Me too.”


End file.
